


Relentless as the Rain

by frith_in_thorns



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captivity, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Presumed Dead, Romantic Coersion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diverges from canon during the S5 finale. (SPOILERS for the whole season.) </p><p>The standoff on the roof goes in Rachel's favour. In the aftermath, both Neal and Peter try not to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



> This was written from an idea of kanarek13's, who also did the AMAZING cover art.

~

The buffeting winds from the helicopter were pushing strands of his hair into Neal's eyes, and rippling through Rebecca's dark bob-cut. 

( _Rachel._ Rebecca had never existed — he hated that he still thought of her that way.)

She flung the lump of brick violently aside, the point of the gun barrel not wavering from Neal's head. "I _will_ shoot you," she warned.

Adrenaline painted everything with crystal clarity. The slight crunch of stone beneath his feet. Rachel's face, eyes wide and furious. New York across the river. The roar of the wind. 

And Peter's voice, where it shouldn't have been. "Drop your weapon!"

Rachel's eyes flicked towards the shout, and Neal instinctively turned his head. Peter was there, with a _shotgun_ —

— and cold metal slammed into his temple, knocking the world askew. Patches of light splintered across his eyes and he staggered, to be grabbed firmly from behind. Arms wrapped around his chest. 

"You want to bet you can avoid shooting him too?"

Blinking desperately, Neal struggled dizzily to focus. Peter wavered into sight, aiming the shotgun square at Neal's chest. The barrel blurred and jumped around, even though Peter's hands stayed steady.

"Now, throw me the diamond." The sensation of Rebecca's voice vibrating against his back finally inspired Neal to try and struggle out of her grip. But she was _strong_ , and it was as if his muscles had turned to water.

"Let Neal go."

"What, do you think I'm stupid? He's what's protecting me. _Diamond._ "

"I don't have it," Peter said. "I left it with the helpful ranger at the gate. Do you want to come down and discuss it there?"

Rebecca let out a snarl of fury. Neal stared at Peter, catching the calm, fear-hiding expression on his face for a moment before it slid out of focus again. He felt certain that he should be _thinking_ , but he was in too much pain.

"I could kill both of you right now," Rebecca said. _(Rachel.)_ "But that wouldn't hurt enough."

She dragged Neal backwards. His rubbery-feeling legs fought to keep pace, and then abruptly there was nothing under his feet and he swung backwards into empty space, Rebecca's arms around him the only thing holding him up. The dizzying spin forced his eyes shut, and he thought his head might be splitting open.

Semi-conscious, he thought, _Peter, I'm sorry…_

~

Peter stood, helpless, as Rachel was winched up to the helicopter, Neal still held as a shield. He was limp in her grip. It would be so easy for her to let him fall —

"Do _not_ let that helicopter get away," he barked into his radio. He couldn't _do_ anything, not from where he was, but he didn't want to take his eyes off Neal. 

"There's a police bird inbound," Jones's voice crackled back.

Would it be fast enough, though? The shotgun was hanging uselessly at his side as Peter scanned the skies for any sign of the police chopper. But there was only Rachel's, and she and Neal were vanishing inside it. After barely a moment it began to turn, rising as it did so.

"It's leaving! North-West bearing."

And then, from the helicopter's still-open door, something fell. Something the shape of — 

"Jones!" Peter shouted, unable not to, unable to tear his eyes away as the distant figure fell shockingly fast. "Neal's anklet. Track it!"

The dark shape hit the river; was swallowed by it. _No, oh no, no…_

"Yeah, I'm already — Uh, Peter?" Jones's voice abruptly changed. "He's not moving like he's on a helicopter. It looks like he's —"

"In the river," Peter finished. It was hard to catch his breath. "She threw him out."

"I'm mobilising a rescue unit right now," Jones said, after a shocked pause. "A boat. They can pick you up."

"No, Neal's the priority. They need to get to him as quickly as possible." The helicopter was still gaining height. How far had Neal fallen? Could he possibly have survived that?

The sharp ringing of a cell phone startled him out of his shock. A moment later he recognised it — that was his _own_ phone…

It was lying where Rachel had stood, right before she had stepped off the fort. The caller ID was Neal's. It made his stomach twist with abrupt, painful hope.

"Peter." Rachel's voice wasn't unexpected, of course not, but it made him feel sick to his stomach nonetheless.

"What did you _do_?" Peter demanded. It came out barely above a whisper, and horrified. He couldn't look away from the helicopter's fast-retreating shape.

"I've no more use for either of you," Rachel said. She didn't sound calm either. "If you had just given me the diamond, Neal would still be alive now. I didn't _want_ to kill him, but the two of you left me no choice."

"You could have just let him go!"

"If it helps," she said, and her voice faltered just for a second, "he was unconscious when he fell. He didn't know what was happening." Her voice hardened. "Don't come looking for me, Peter. You'll never find me."

The call disconnected. It took long seconds for Peter to realise he still had the phone pressed against his ear. He lowered it slowly. The helicopter was becoming a dot in the distance.

Neal, unconscious, hitting the water and his lungs pulling in a breath…

_He's Neal. If anyone could survive that fall, he can._

His radio crackled. "Agent Burke?"

He had to swallow sharply before answering. "Yes?"

"This is Chief Thomason, on the rescue boat. We're above the signal location. It's moving with the current, but we're moving with it."

"Above?" Peter asked, sharply.

"I'm sorry," Thomason said. His voice had dropped, sympathetically. "I'm arranging some divers, for the recovery operation."

"Are you sure —"

"Agent, we're in the middle of the river. If your man were at the surface we'd be able to see him. I'm sorry," he repeated, and Peter fought the urge to smash the radio into the ground, to break it viciously, repeatedly, as if that could make the facts not be true.

A moment later, the call came in that the helicopter had got away. And Peter could do nothing except stand there, staring out over the city, his rage draining away and leaving a terrible, all-permeating emptiness.

~

He didn't remember until he reached the car that Rachel still had his keys, and he had to use the radio again to call for a lift. 

He was tossing the blue diamond from hand to hand when one of the Bureau's black cars pulled up and Diana got out, her face shuttered. He'd been expecting a probie, but he was overwhelmingly glad to see her instead. "Jones is at the nearest dock," she said, with no preamble. "He's coordinating with NYPD to get a couple of their divers. They should be ready within the hour. Do you want to go down there?" Her voice was tight, like she'd not been able to take a deep breath in some time.

Peter shook his head. "We should go to the Bureau," he said. Rachel was getting away, and they couldn't afford the start that several hours of him waiting for divers to find… Neal… would give her. And then something else occurred to him, and his heart sank even further, which he hadn't thought possible. "But we need to go via the hospital."

"Oh, god," Diana said, as she realised too. "Mozzie and Elizabeth —"

"Yeah, they don't know yet." Peter strapped himself into the passenger seat, pulling out his phone and staring blankly at the texts El had been sending him, reporting cheerfully that Mozzie was beginning to recover from his poisoning.

Diana nodded brusquely, blinking hard, and she stared straight ahead as she pulled out. They drove in silence. Peter couldn't stop thinking how _unreal_ this all seemed, like a bad dream. This just couldn't _happen_ to Neal.

They parked in front of the hospital, and both stayed sitting inside the car for long moments. "You don't have to come up," Peter offered.

Diana shook her head determinedly. "No, I do."

It was worse than Peter had expected. Of _course_ it was worse. He had barely opened the door before Mozzie, sitting up and looking reassuringly animated, demanded, "Did you get the diamond?" And then, "Hey. Where's Neal?"

Elizabeth read something in Peter's face before Mozzie did, and one of her hands rose towards her mouth. 

"Suit?" Mozzie demanded, more sharply. He pushed himself more upright, hands beginning to grip the sheets.

"Rachel," Peter said. "She —"

Mozzie was leaning towards him, eyes very wide in his pale face. " _Is he all right?_ "

Peter began to shake his head. "No," he said. 

"He's hurt? How bad is it?" Beside Mozzie, Elizabeth was beginning to get to her feet.

Diana took a step forward, bringing herself level with Peter. "Mozzie, Neal's gone," she said. "Rachel killed him."

"Oh, god," El whispered, and it was Mozzie's hand she reached for, squeezing his fingers so hard that her knuckles went white.

"No," Mozzie said, and began to shake his head. "No, no. He _wouldn't…_ " His eyes met Peter's in a silent plea. But Peter didn't have an answer for him, except the one that he didn't want to hear.

~

The Bureau was a rush of activity, faltering as Peter walked in through the doors but resuming a moment later. He strode straight through and up to his office, not making eye contact with anyone, and no one got in his way. Diana wasn't so fortunate — he glanced back as he climbed the stairs to see her at the centre of a knot of agents, having to confirm what the shocked questioners already knew.

_Rachel escaped again. Neal's dead._

An APB had already been issued; Peter within minutes was on the telephone with Interpol and then with the FBI's other sister agencies, making sure they were updated. He described her recently-changed appearance as best he could, and found himself thinking, _we need Neal to make a sketch_.

And he caught himself checking, again and again, Neal's tracking data. Waiting for the moment when it would leave the river, and this would all finally have to become real. They had barely been able to stop Mozzie from climbing out of his hospital bed and running down to join the searchers — it had been Elizabeth who had persuaded him, in the end.

So he was staring at the steady dot when it abruptly cut out.

His cell phone was in his hand before he'd even registered it. "Jones," he said, as soon as the call picked up, "What's going on?"

"Peter, I'm sorry," Jones said. His voice was tight, as if he were grimacing. "You're not going to like this."

"What?" Peter repeated, a tinge of nausea rising. It couldn't be _worse_ news, how _could_ it be…

"A Navy ship's been doing manoeuvres, and the current's been pulling Caffrey along faster than we thought it would. The signal just cut out underneath the ship."

"You mean —" Peter began, horrified, and had to stop to swallow hard. The powerful engines, churning the massive propellers…

"We had the divers ready to go, and we're going to keep searching downstream of the ship. They're not giving up yet on recovering him."

"Right," Peter said, numbly. "Let me know. As soon as you find… anything."

"Yeah." Jones's voice dropped. " _Shit_ , Peter."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, and hung up. He swallowed thickly again, and then abruptly pushed his chair back and tried not to hurry too visibly to the (mercifully empty) restroom. He reached it only just in time to throw up. 

_I can't tell Elizabeth this,_ he thought, as he splashed water on his face. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to bring himself to tell Mozzie.

~

The house was full of boxes. Peter manoeuvred through the neat packages of his life to the alcohol cabinet, and found it empty. _Obviously._

Elizabeth was curled up on top of the duvet, fully clothed. She turned her head as Peter came in but didn't speak. He climbed onto the bed next to her, and she nestled into his arms.

"Where did Mozzie go?" Peter asked, eventually. Diana had let him know he'd been discharged from the hospital.

El shook her head. "To June's, I think, but he didn't really say. I offered to drive him but he turned me down."

Peter held her tight. She was so warm, and he could feel her heartbeat. Her breathing. His eyes fell on the boxes stacked against the walls. "I never imagined we'd be leaving New York like this."

"I know," El said. "You'll be able to use the resources in Washington to track Rachel, won't you?"

"Damn right." Although he couldn't picture being gone. Even with the evidence of their move all around him, he couldn't now believe it was actually going to happen. 

"I just can't believe it," El said, echoing his thoughts. " _Neal._ "

What could he say? He could barely believe it either.

El pressed herself closer to him, and then abruptly rolled away. "Hon, what's that in your pocket?" she asked.

"Huh?" Peter obediently fished in his pocket, and his fingers closed around a small, hard object. "Oh, damn," he said, and pulled out the diamond. "I was going to turn this in, and I forgot all about it."

"It's beautiful," El said, and took it gently from him, rotating it in her fingers. There were tears suddenly pooling in her eyes, overspilling and running down her cheeks. "But it isn't worth it."

"It isn't," Peter agreed. It was such a small thing to have caused all this disaster. For Siegel and Hagen and Neal to have died for. He watched how the light was caught in its blue depths as El tilted it. _Nothing_ would be worth this cost — the diamond didn't even come close. 

"I'll drop it off at the Bureau tomorrow morning," he said. "It'll give me a chance to say a proper goodbye to everyone, before we leave. What time are the movers getting here?"

"Eight," El said. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and looked at the clock. "We should probably try and sleep."

"I don't think I can," Peter confessed. He lowered his head, pressing his face into her hair.

"Nor me," El said. She bit down on another sob as it escaped from her. "But we need to try."

~

Washington DC felt worlds different from New York. And worlds away, for all that it was only a few hours' drive. 

El had house-hunted while she'd been staying with Bruce out of Rachel's way. As a result, they were able to move straight into an airy two-storey place in the suburbs, with good commuting routes for both of them and a park nearby.

It was perfect, Peter thought, sitting at the kitchen table which he'd owned for years but which now was, like everything else, strangely unfamiliar in its new setting. Everything was perfect. 

Except for how it wasn't, at all.

Satchmo whined and sniffed suspiciously at each box, deeply unhappy at the upheaval of his uneventful life. "I know how you feel, buddy," Peter muttered, and scratched his ears.

They didn't have internet in the house yet, but he was able to check his emails on his phone. There was one from Diana, short and to the point. The search for Neal's body had been officially called off. They were well past the stage where they were likely to find anything.

Peter felt like he'd been the one to run away this time.

~

His first full week in his new office was interrupted for Neal's memorial ceremony back in New York. It was a bleak affair, on a dull grey day.

Mozzie made his first reappearance since he'd received the news, he and June holding each others' hands tightly throughout. More people from the White Collar division attended than Peter had expected, and there were some distinctly suspect characters lurking around the edges. Not that he was in any sort of mood to care. He held onto Elizabeth, and envied her the release of being able to cry.

"How's DC?" Diana asked him, afterwards.

"Different," Peter said. "I miss the field. How're you guys doing?"

"We've got a new ASAC," Diana said. "Transferred in from Boston yesterday. She seems okay."

"Glad to hear it," Peter said, feeling a pang of jealousy. "You'll have forgotten all about me in no time."

"Only if you never visit," Diana said. "You're one of Theo's uncles, don't forget."

"I've no intention of losing touch with either of you," Peter assured her.

He didn't know what to say to June, who had heartbreak written across her weary face. Nor to Mozzie, who glared at him when he approached. It was Mozzie's way, Peter reminded himself, to find someone to blame. To _need_ someone to blame. He fumbled his way through platitudes, and June was distantly cordial in return. Mozzie simply nodded.

If he hadn't let Neal go up to confront Rachel…

Elizabeth drove them back to DC. (Back _home_.) Neither of them was in the mood to talk, so she put on one of her CDs; some lilting music that was quiet and (it seemed) gently mournful. But everything was mournful, down to the darkening skies and the soft patter of rain.

They made love that night, on a bed that seemed to creak in a different way to how it always used to, in a room still mostly empty of themselves. And Peter cried when it was over, the first time he'd managed tears, and Elizabeth held him to her breast and stroked his hair and she was weeping too, but Peter only realised it when he touched his hand against her face.

And the next morning he went back to work.

He had been telling the truth to Diana when he'd said he missed the field, but he was already beginning to be surprised at how much he was enjoying some aspects of the deskwork. He was still doing things that _mattered_ , even though he wasn't personally catching the bad guys any more. There was a whole edifice of bureaucracy that had to be maintained to allow the field agents around the country to do their jobs. Some bits, like the eternal meetings, were hell, but he was _good_ at administration and finance — he always had been.

A week went by, and then a month. He was settling in.

Elizabeth had transitioned easily. She was loving her job at the National Gallery, and already impressing her supervisors. With a sort of fierce determination she had already amassed a network of friends, and made more on each political event she accompanied Peter to.

Peter was finding it harder. He liked the other section chiefs and the general Bureau staff he worked with well enough, but so far he hadn't found anyone he really clicked with. _No one like Neal,_ he thought, with a formless sense of guilt. 

And there was enough guilt to be getting on with. It woke him up at night; found him wandering the still-unfamiliar corners of the house to find a calming drink that didn't calm him. It had silently become a part of his schedule: _3 a. m., let Satchmo out into the yard and consider how you failed to save Neal._

If he'd kept a closer eye on what Neal was up to. If he'd forced a confrontation with Rebecca/Rachel when he'd first met her. If he'd forced Neal to stay away from Rachel's case. If he hadn't let Neal go up onto the roof of the fort…

There seemed no limit to the possible self-recriminations. They drifted past him endlessly each night, like a procession of ghosts.

"Hon, I think you should talk to someone," El said one evening, apparently apropos of nothing.

Peter looked up from the report he had been reading. "What do you mean?"

She pursed her lips slightly as she looked at him. "I think you should consider talking to a councillor. About Neal, and everything that's happened."

"I don't need to talk to a shrink," Peter said, automatically. "I'm fine."

She pushed aside her laptop and got up, smoothing the hair down on his head. "Sweetheart, you're _not_ fine. This is eating you up. I've been worrying about you."

Peter shook his head, which dislodged her hand. He slipped his arm around her waist instead, and she leaned into him. "Talking to a stranger wouldn't help. I'll deal with it on my own." He felt a fierce surge of protectiveness — Neal was _his_. His memories weren't about to be poured over and dissected by someone who had never known him.

El shook her head doubtfully. "You aren't talking to _anyone_ , though. Not even me."

That made Peter look up sharply. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to shut you out…"

"I know," she said, with a sigh.

"I've been talking to Diana," Peter said. They had been emailing back and forth, exchanging a few paragraphs every couple of days. She sent photos of Theo, and told him about cases she was working on. In return… well, he mostly responded to her news, really.

Still, it made Elizabeth look happier. "I'm glad," she said, and kissed him. She glanced at the report he was still holding. "Have you nearly finished your work for tonight?"

"Shouldn't be long," Peter said. 

His phone gave him an email alert then, and he opened his own laptop to look, while El went back to hers. He had expected it to be another missive from Diana, but the message in his inbox was from a free webmail service, with the user name 'dantehaversham937624' and no subject line.

Peter frowned in surprise. He'd had no contact at all with Mozzie since the funeral, although he suspected Elizabeth to be in touch (and probably sworn to secrecy about it). He opened the email.

_Do you think Neal might be alive?_

Peter caught his breath, only just managing to keep himself from making a noise which would alert El. _Please don't let Mozzie have been trying to feed false hope to her too…_ He shouldn't be surprised, of course, that Mozzie would want to turn to conspiracies. But, oh god, it was just too much to handle.

He sent back one word: _No._ He felt nauseous. He was trying to deal, trying to come to terms, and then…

He retreated hastily to the bathroom on the other side of the house, and sat on the edge of the tub breathing slowly until he was sure he wasn't going to be sick. Not that there was all that much in his stomach — he didn't have much of an appetite these days. (It was to be expected, though, now that he was behind a desk all day and getting less exercise.)

When he looked in the mirror, he was shocked by how pale his face was. No wonder El was worrying about him, if he was usually looking even half this bad. _Get a grip, Burke,_ he told himself, sternly.

He refused that night to get up and wander the house when he woke in the dark early hours. But sleep wouldn't take him, no matter how long he lay still with his eyes firmly closed, grief and guilt knotting into a physical ache deep inside him.

~

"Peter, you don't look too well," Bruce said, eyeing him critically over his desk.

Peter shrugged slightly, feeling self-conscious. "I didn't get a lot of sleep last night." Hadn't for a while, really. Certainly not since Mozzie's email had sparked off something dangerous and painful — there hadn't been any further communication from him in the days since, but Peter couldn't forget it.

"You know, most people find working here _less_ stressful than running a field office."

Peter snorted, momentarily diverted. "I don't believe you. I had _four_ budget meetings this week with people who all wanted completely different answers to the same question. I never had to do _that_ in New York."

Bruce laughed. "Well, maybe. Don't go spreading that around, though, or we'll never be able to recruit anyone to DC at all."

Peter smiled. "Somehow, I don't think you'll have a problem there —" He broke off sharply at a twanging pain from his stomach.

"Peter?" Bruce was suddenly in front of him, hands hovering awkwardly. 

It was a moment before he could speak — he could do nothing until he'd rode out the wave of agony. "Sorry," he gasped. "Be okay."

Bruce guided him down into the visitor's chair. "I'm calling a medic," he said, and left without giving Peter a choice in the matter. Not that he could have really argued — he wasn't even sure he'd be able to stand. He was abruptly nauseous, and shivering hard.

The FBI medic took a quick look at him and told him to go to the ER. "I can drive you," she said, and Bruce nodded his agreement.

At least it _was_ possible for Peter to move under his own power, although the residual pain made him slow. The medic walked next to him, not trying to force support on him. He was grateful for that. "What's your name?"

"Mikaela," she said. "You're Peter, yes?"

He nodded. "Thanks for doing this."

"It's my job," she told him calmly, which somehow made it slightly less humiliating. 

At Mikaela's insistence, he phoned Elizabeth on the way to the hospital, despite not wanting to disrupt her day. She arrived not long after they'd taken seats in the waiting room, just as Peter was called back.

The doctor he saw was brisk, but gentle. She took his temperature and then asked Peter a long series of questions about his diet and lifestyle habits, which he answered as honestly as he could. When she'd finished she wrote something on his chart and then frowned slightly, tapping her pen against it.

"You've got classic signs of an early-stage peptic ulcer," she said. "I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics as a treatment, but if your symptoms don't improve within a week you need to come back here. You should also check in with your primary physician anyway, just for monitoring in case this is something more serious." She scribbled down some more things on his chart. "You're also going to have to restrict your diet for a little while, to help yourself heal. I'll write a note on your scrip so you get given the information at the pharmacy."

Peter nodded. "Thanks," he said.

"And I'll write you a sick note for the rest of the week."

"That's not necessary," Peter protested. "I just sit at a desk. I'll be fine."

She didn't look impressed. "My medical recommendation is that you spend the rest of the week at home. From what you've told me, you've experienced a lot of stress over the last couple of months, which has probably contributed to making you ill now." She sighed slightly, as if already bracing herself for an argument. "I also recommend a psych consult. You're displaying strong symptoms of depression."

"No," Peter said, immediately. "No, I don't need that."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Agree to spend the next few days _resting_ , and that recommendation stays off-the-record."

Peter decided, grudgingly, that he liked her. "Done," he said.

~

Elizabeth was waiting for him out in the main area. "I said I'd take you home, so Mikaela's gone back to the Bureau," she said. "I like her. We should invite her and her wife over for dinner sometime."

"That sounds nice," Peter agreed. They'd barely done any hosting since the move, although he suspected that Elizabeth must have wanted to but had held back because of the knowledge that Peter didn't. He felt grateful for her all over again.

El let him kiss her as she stood up. "What did the doctor say?" she asked.

Peter grimaced. "Early-stage stomach ulcer," he admitted. "I've got a prescription and a diet plan, and I'm not supposed to go to work until Monday."

"I should think not," El said. Her lips pressed together into a sharp line. "Hon…"

"I didn't know," Peter said, quickly. "I wasn't really ignoring anything. I didn't realise —"

"Yes, I know," El said. She sighed. "That's sort of the problem, really. You've been so wrapped up inside your head, not letting anyone else in… Did you really think I haven't noticed you getting up in the night, or that you're throwing away half your food?"

Peter didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he hazarded.

She folded her hands around his. "Sit down. I'll get your prescription." Her voice was gentle.

She was gentle with him as she took him home, too, installing him on the couch while she brewed ginger tea. Then she sat down beside him, holding her own mug.

"There's no time limit on grief," she said. 

"I know," Peter said. He looked down at his mug. "And I _know_ I'm not the only one who misses him. I just… I don't know how to talk about it. I don't even think I _want_ to."

El shifted up to nestle against him. "You don't have to talk, if that wouldn't help you," she said. "But you _do_ need to take better care of yourself."

Peter felt a stab of guilt. She had told him before, explicitly, that she was worrying about him. He had hardly made things any easier for her since then. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try. I really will."

She smiled at him, hopefully. "I love you," she said. Then, more briskly, "I'll take a look at what you are and aren't allowed to eat, and see what we've got in the kitchen. No working while I'm gone."

"I promise not to," Peter said, smiling back. "I just need to make a few calls and let people know they won't be seeing me until Monday. Then I'm all yours."

They didn't do anything particularly special with their unexpected weekday together, but it was… relaxing. El balanced her laptop on her knees to at least keep on top of her emails, and Peter leaned against her and read his way through a novel he'd been given for his birthday and had never found time to start. They ate a slightly bland dinner and watched a movie, and Peter was surprised to realise just how much stress he'd been carrying around — he could feel the difference just one evening away from it made.

For the first time in weeks, he slept through the night.

He had the house to himself the next day, as El had to be back at the Gallery. It felt strange to have nothing urgent clamouring for his attention.

About mid-morning though, he gave in to temptation and checked his personal email. (It wasn't technically off-limits, but he still felt mildly guilty about it.) Diana had sent him a photo of Theo covered in strawberry ice cream and looking delighted about it, which made him grin.

And there was another message from dantehaversham937624. This one had the subject line, _Proof._

With a sinking feeling, Peter opened it, ready for a knee-jerk reaction to whatever conspiracy Mozzie had come up with.

The email started with pictures of five paintings and one stock certificate, with the annotation that they had all come up on various markets around the States within the last month and a half. Below were close-ups from each, at least one featuring the sort of lighting effect that suggested someone who had just broken in to where it was being stored was illuminating it with a flashlight for the camera.

Each close-up featured small, subtle, almost imperceptible symbols. Peter stared at them, feeling a nagging familiarity, until he abruptly realised where he had seen them before. Each one had been a symbol used to hide the coordinates of the diamond in Mosconi's codex.

Someone who was familiar with the codex had added these into forgeries.

Barely breathing, Peter typed back, _You think Neal did these?_

He refreshed the inbox until he got a reply. It only took a few minutes. _The only people to see these were me, you, Hagan, and Neal. It's proof! Neal's alive, and he's sending us messages!_

He _would_ do that. Neal was more than clever enough to find a way. _How did you find these? Do you have more intel?_

_I've been watching every forged piece in Neal's style that's gone up for sale, of course. I TOLD you he's still alive!_

Peter stared at the screen, his emotions in turmoil. Part of him wanted to be sceptical, but the rest of him shouted it down. He _believed_ Mozzie. Neal was alive.

Neal was alive, and was sending up distress flares.

Neal was alive, and Peter hadn't even been looking for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal's trapped depending on Rachel, whether he likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings specific for this chapter: Emotional manipulation, romantic coercion, non-consensual drug use.

~

Gentle fingers were stroking his hair.

He was usually quick to wake, but now he felt like he was struggling up through thick tar. _So_ tired. A pounding headache. He caught a blurred glimpse of light and dark, and his eyes closed again.

"Sshhh," someone murmured. A woman's voice. _El?_

A silhouette. Head bending down towards him. He moaned as he struggled to focus, nauseous and hurting.

"Go back to sleep," the low voice said.

 _No,_ he shouldn't — but he couldn't remember why. He tried to lift his head, his hands. Everything was too heavy.

A pinch on his arm, and he was sinking again. Drowning…

~

"Neal?"

He couldn't place where he was so, out of habit, he didn't move or open his eyes. There was a mattress under him, and his head was throbbing sickly. A hangover?

"Come on, I know you're waking up."

He recognised her voice this time, and dragged his eyelids open. "Rebecca?" His voice was hoarse. _What happened?_

Her hair was wrong, but her smile was just the same. "Hi, Neal," Rebecca said. "I was beginning to worry."

"I'm —" Neal fumbled a hand along the side of his head, finding the place where the pain radiated from. His fingertips found a barely-clotted wound, and swollen flesh. 

"It's okay," Rebecca said, gently. "You're safe now."

There was something very wrong with that statement. Neal shuddered, and his stomach turned as it came back to him. "Rachel."

She looked mildly disappointed. "I like you calling me Rebecca, you know."

"Glad to hear that, _Rachel_." Neal tried sitting up. He was in a small, white-painted room, on a narrow bed. Rachel was perched on the end of it, watching him.

She wasn't holding a gun. For a fleeting moment Neal considered trying to make a break for it — he measured the distance to the door. But even being semi-vertical was making him dizzy, and he'd watched her take down an FBI agent with her bare hands. He didn't stand a chance.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Rachel said, when his eyes returned to her. "You should know by now I wouldn't do that."

"My head doesn't believe you," Neal retorted. He wasn't entirely sure what had actually happened — but he remembered her holding a gun to his temple. Even concussed, he could manage _that_ leap of logic.

Her mouth twisted wryly. "I didn't _want_ to do that. I wasn't left with much of a choice, though."

They could probably keep up this line of argument for a very long time. "You've kidnapped me," Neal said.

Rachel looked somewhat amused. "Clearly."

"Where are we?"

"In a house that I own." She didn't elaborate on the location.

"I thought you'd changed your mind about wanting me to run away with you."

She smiled sweetly, but it had a cruel edge. "Not at all. I just stopped believing it was something _you_ wanted."

What scared Neal the most was the calm way she said it. She wasn't delusional, or mistaken — she knew perfectly well that Neal hated her, and was afraid of her. She just didn't _care_ , because all that mattered to her was what _she_ wanted. And she wanted him with her, willing or not.

"Can I have some water?" he asked. His watch was no longer on his wrist and he couldn't estimate how long he'd been unconscious for, but now that he was awake the sensation of thirst was growing rapidly.

Rachel smiled again. "Of course," she said. "I'll fetch you a glass."

She stood and left the room, leaving the door very slightly ajar. Neal stared after her. It couldn't be as easy as that, surely…

With an effort, he got to his feet, holding the wall as the room spun dizzily around him. He was feeling nauseous again, and his balance was all off, but he pressed determinedly forwards. 

The door swung open easily. Rachel was not in the room beyond. It had a couch and a couple of chairs, and an empty table. Wooden shutters were closed across the window, and fastened shut to block out any natural light. An alcove contained a small toilet and shower — with a curtain, rather than a glass panel that could be smashed into a weapon. Another door was set into the far wall, and this one didn't open to Neal's hand. There was a peephole in it, which was for him the wrong way around so that he couldn't see anything through it, and no keyhole. It was secured and even hinged from the other side.

"Go and sit on the couch." Rachel's voice filtered in through some hidden speaker.

Neal could have refused, but his throat was so painfully dry it was becoming all he could think about. He retreated across the room and sat down. As soon as he did so the door opened, and Rachel entered with a tall glass of water in her hand. The door shut immediately behind her, faster than he could have made it across the room. He accepted the glass from her without speaking, and tried to refrain from gulping down all the water at once. 

"Better?" she asked, once she'd finished.

Neal set the empty glass down by his foot. "I don't know what you hope to achieve by keeping me here, but you should know you're not going to get it," he said.

Rachel looked politely disbelieving. "Peter's not going to find you here, you know."

Were they outside the country? "You're wrong," Neal said, hoping to cover his uncertainty. But he shouldn't be uncertain. Peter _always_ found him.

"I'm going to leave you for now," Rachel said. "There's a button on the wall next to the door. If you need anything, hold it down and speak. That will record a message and send it to me, and then I can bring you what you need."

"I'm not going to _beg_ you for anything," Neal said.

"You already asked for water." Rachel held her hand out. "Pass me the glass, please."

He did so. She held all the cards; the smart thing was to wait, ask for nothing, and work out what her plan was.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll see you soon, Neal. Hopefully you'll feel better after some more sleep. Oh, and don't get up until I've left the room."

And she left him there, alone.

~

Neal _did_ sleep more — his head was still pounding. He discovered that the lights in both rooms could be dimmed, but not quite turned off, so he made it as dark as he could and lay back down on the bed. 

First, though, he had examined the door and the shutters. They both seemed completely impervious. The door he suspected had some kind of electromagnetic lock which Rachel had touched a key to as she'd left, and the solid shutters let no glimmer of light through and were screwed so deeply into the wooden frame that he had no chance of prying them free without tools. But everything that had been in his pockets had gone.

He felt more human when he woke again, certainly enough to wish he had some fresh clothes to change into. His tie, jacket and shoes were missing, but otherwise he was still dressed as he had been at the fort, and the clothes were by now sweaty and rumpled.

Even so, he was hesitant about using the shower. He pulled the curtain across the tiny alcove, and he hadn't yet discovered any cameras, but he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes burning into his skin. _Rachel's_ eyes. He shuddered, and in the end just washed his face in the minuscule sink and returned to sit on the couch.

There was nothing to occupy himself with. He tried searching the rooms for the cameras he was still sure must exist, but he had no luck and straining his eyes made his head hurt again. 

He lay on the couch, trying to piece together _any_ clues about where he was. Without meaning to, he dozed off (he blamed the concussion's lingering effects) and woke with his stomach growling with hunger and his mouth dry.

Rachel didn't return.

Finally, he decided he felt grimy enough to shower even if she was watching. There was no soap, but the warm water felt wonderful for the first few minutes. Then he began to feel lightheaded, and had to turn off the water and crouch down until it passed. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him of one of the likely causes.

There wasn't even a towel. He used his undershirt to dry himself, and then hung it over the back of one of the chairs after he'd put on the rest of his clothes again, grimacing slightly.

The button Rachel had told him to press when he needed something was taunting him. Finally, Neal gave in. "I need something to eat and drink," he said. "And some clean clothes." Since he hadn't anything to lose at this point, and drips from his hair were still running down his back, he added, "A towel would be nice, too."

Then he sat on the couch and waited. 

Shortly afterwards, the door opened. Rachel held a tray in her hands, and a canvas bag hung from one shoulder. She put the tray on the table — a bowl of what looked like thick tomato soup, with two buttered rolls, and another large glass of water. "Here," she said. "Just like you asked for." She waited, while he watched her silently. "Say thank you, or you might not get more."

He waited a few more seconds. "Thank you," he said, reluctantly.

"You're welcome, Neal." She smiled at him, and offered him the bag. There was a towel on top, and a tee-shirt, jeans and one pair of boxer shorts underneath.

Rachel sat down at the table, across from the tray. Neal was reluctant to do _anything_ with her watching, but he was hungry enough that he decided to swallow his pride, and took the other seat. 

The soup was surprisingly good, and the bread was fresh. There was no way Rachel would have cooked food for him herself, so either she had bought it or this place was large enough for her to employ a cook. Either could be the case.

He didn't speak while he ate, and Rachel didn't ask him to. When he had finished, she stood. "I'll give you privacy to change," she said, as if she was being magnanimous. "You can go into the bedroom. Put the dirty clothes in the bag, and I'll have them washed."

"You don't have to wait for me," Neal said. "I can change after you've left."

"Oh, no," she said. "I _insist_." Her eyes were suddenly steely.

He could already see what she was doing. Give him one meal at a time, one set of clothes at a time. Make him _ask_ for everything. "I'll wait."

"Do you think you're in a bargaining position here?" Rachel asked. "I suggest you think very carefully about what you have to lose."

Neal went into the bedroom, dried his hair properly, and changed. He gave her the bag with the dirty clothes when he came out, and she checked carefully that everything was there. "You can keep the towel," she said. "See you again soon."

~

There was no way to measure time. Nothing to give him the illusion of control.

Neal paced the room at intervals, trying to force his mind into some crack in Rachel's schemes. He wondered what Peter was doing at that moment; what Mozzie was doing. His imagination expanded outward, and he was eventually trying to picture the current movements of everyone in the White Collar Division, and all of June's relatives down to her grandchildren. Nothing he came up with was enlightening.

He realised, eventually, that pacing would just lead to him becoming thirsty again faster. Although he could drink the water from the sink if he had to. (Whether it would be _good_ for him, on the other hand…)

If Rachel was waiting for him to call on her, he vowed he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. 

Of course, now that he had made that firm decision, he began to be plagued by thoughts of food. The soup had been tasty, but it hadn't really made up for however many meals he'd missed while unconscious. And there was nothing to do _but_ think.

It was actually the boredom that broke him, some unknown number of hours later. He rationalised it by telling himself that if he persuaded Rachel to spend more time in the room with him, she was more likely to accidentally let something slip that he could use against her. But, in truth, he was desperate for a break from staring at white walls and exits he couldn't open.

She brought him a toasted brie bagel, with a salad, and another glass of water. "Can I have a more interesting drink next time?" he asked.

"That depends," she said, and didn't tell him what it depended on. Again, she sat to watch him eat.

"This can't possibly be interesting for you," he said, between mouthfuls.

She shrugged. "You're always an interesting person, Neal."

Since he now had the feeling of having given in, the next time he was hungry enough to call for her it felt like less of a blow to his pride. He'd shifted his strategy from resistance to cooperation. It mildly surprised him how calm he felt about that.

 _Suspiciously_ calm. The time after (the day after?) that, he froze with the water glass already at his lips, and then slowly lowered it. "Is there something in this?" he asked.

Rachel regarded him calmly. "Yes."

"What?"

"Only a very low dose of Valium. Don't worry."

Neal set down the glass with a sharp clatter. "You're _drugging_ me."

Her smile was amused. "It's for your own good, Neal, to make this easier on you." She raised an eyebrow. "You can always decide not to drink it, if you feel that strongly."

He raised one of his own eyebrows in response. "Will you give me some non-drugged water instead?"

"No."

"That's not really a _decision_ , then," he pointed out.

Rachel shrugged. "It's still a choice. You're doing it to yourself." She leaned forwards, her elbows on the table. "Neal, you aren't going to achieve anything by resisting. You'll _have_ to drink it sooner or later, so why don't you just get it over with?"

She sounded reasonable. There was a slight smile on her face, one that invited him to recognise the truth of her logic.

He shoved the glass deliberately towards her.

"Fine," she said, no longer smiling. She picked up the full glass and the untouched plate of food, and left the room.

~

He drank tap water, scooping it into his mouth with his cupped hands. His fingers rasped against the stubble on his chin.

Shortly afterwards, his insides began to cramp. Neal lay on the bed, his eyes closed, breathing steadily through his mouth in the hope that it would pass, but then his stomach roiled and he stumbled to the toilet in time to throw up. There was the water and little else. 

Vomiting hadn't made him feel better. He was shivering, freezing cold, and at the same time he could feel himself sweat. He retched again, although there was already nothing left to bring up, and huddled against the wall.

It didn't make _sense_ for him to be this sick. He remembered Rachel's slight smile.

When he could finally manage it he struggled to his feet, and used the wall to guide him back to the bedroom. He huddled in a tight ball under the blankets, still shivering, his head now pounding as if it had been struck again. He dozed, tumbling in and out of fever dreams which were vividly coloured and sharp as glass. Couldn't remember where he was.

"Oh, Neal." He thought the cool hand on his forehead was a part of his dream for a while. "Can you hear me? It's Rebecca."

He moaned, and turned towards her as she replaced her hand with a cold cloth. Her fingers slid down to his shoulder instead, rubbing soothingly.

"I'm going to look after you," she murmured. 

He opened his eyes, and reflexively jerked away as she leaned down towards him, a dark shape.

She shushed him. "It's just me, just Rebecca. Don't worry, Neal. You're safe."

He reached for her hand. "Becca…"

_…red hair fanned over his pillow and the smell of old books and this gentle voice…_

He fell in and out of sleep and every time he half-woke Rebecca was there with him, comforting him and holding a glass to his lips so he could drink. Her face heat-shimmered in his blurring eyes. His fever must be very high.

 _What's in the water?_ he thought, and couldn't remember why seemed so important. _In the water in the water in the water…_

When he finally woke with a clear head, her absence was the first thing Neal noticed. He lay and stared listlessly at the white walls for a while, tired and wrung out, feeling as colourless as they were. Lingering remnants of his dreams gnawed at him, although he could no longer remember what they had been about.

Eventually he got up. There was a note on the table, two words on a small piece of paper. _Call me._

He washed first, realising belatedly that he was dressed in a pair of cotton pyjamas he had no memory of changing into. His fingers found more stubble on his face than he remembered.

"Rebecca," he said into the hidden speaker. He didn't bother to make requests — it was her turn.

And, indeed, when she arrived a while later (enough time for him to sit down on the couch and accidentally doze off) she was bearing an unasked-for tray in her hands. "Are you feeling better?" she asked. "You've been very ill, so I only brought you soup today."

It tasted good, of course. He was coming to expect that. "I'm okay," he said. He felt sluggish and tired; fogged.

"Good," she said, and her hand drifted over the surface of the table so that it lay close to Neal's. "Is there anything you need? You only have to ask."

"I'd like some new clothes," Neal said. He rubbed at his face. "And I'd also like to shave."

"I can arrange both of those." Her smile was the same one that had calmed him as he had been wracked with fever. It unnerved him now, because she _shouldn't_ be bringing up good feelings in him, but of course they were the ones that had been there first, that had lain as the foundation…

With a jolt, he realised that he had been sipping thoughtlessly at his glass of water, and it was now mostly empty. 

Rebecca had been right all along. Resisting _had_ been pointless. He'd been punished, and was doing what she wanted in the end.

But she kept her word, bringing him a new set of clothes, which she handed over to him, and supplies for shaving, which she didn't. "I'm afraid I can't give you the razor," she said, with an apologetic smile. "Go and change first, and then I'll shave you."

"Maybe growing a beard isn't so bad," Neal said.

"Well, think about it." She sat down to wait.

At least she wasn't trying to use a straight razor on him. When Neal emerged from the bedroom it was to find that it was an electric one she'd laid out on the table next to a gently steaming bowl of water, with no exposed blades. He weighed it up. And was the end result really going to be anything other than the one she wanted? "Fine, I'll let you shave me."

She looked pleased. "I promise I'm good at this," she said, guiding him to sit. 

He closed his eyes as she wiped his face with a warm, damp cloth. Then she sprayed shaving foam into her hand and smoothed it into his face, her fingers working in little circular movements along his jaw, and then stroking down his neck. He shivered minutely.

The loud buzzing of the electric razor as she switched it on made him start. "No need to worry," Rebecca murmured into his ear, and the buzz transferred to his skin as she shaved him, gently and methodically. She was leaning close to do so and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his brow. When he opened his eyes for a quick glance she had her forehead slightly creased in concentration, her expression focused.

It was finally done. Rebecca wet the cloth again to wipe his face clean, and ran the back of her hand down his now-smooth cheek to check her work before stepping back. "You look much more like yourself now," she said.

Neal ran a hand over his face. He _felt_ more like himself, too. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." Rebecca poured the water in the bowl down the sink, and packed the shaving supplies back into it to take with her. "Make sure to rest — we don't want you getting sick again."

He kept touching his face after she had gone, feeling the phantom pressure of her hands on him. It deeply unnerved him that he hadn't minded it more.

~

Neal could feel the smothering, restraining pressure of the drugs if he thought about it, so he tried not to. And that was easier than it should have been, because all his emotions were being blunted and ground down by them.

He needed Peter to find him. Rebecca must have covered her tracks very well, but Peter was better. His strongest spikes of feeling came when Neal thought about Peter; an aching stab. He missed him as desperately as he could, and everyone else too — Mozzie, Elizabeth, June.

And there was too much time for thinking, even though he suspected he'd been sleeping far more than usual. Neal had begun looking forward to Rebecca bringing him meals, because at least it was a reprise from the monotony of his thoughts. He even dared to ask for more things — shower soap, a set of pyjamas he could _keep_ , fresh sheets — and she gave them to him.

No books, though. Or paper, or pencils. Not even a pack of cards.

"What are you working on? You know, out there?" he asked her over his bowl of stew, and she frowned slightly.

"Neal, you know I'm not going to tell you where we are."

"No," he said, quickly. "I wasn't asking that. I just… I'm _bored_."

She pursed her lips, weighing up the risks of divulging information. Then she smiled. "There's a Rembrandt being moved from an art gallery. I'm working on a plan."

Neal leaned forward, instantly engaged. "How's it being transported?" he asked.

"It's the only piece moving, so one of the directors is planning to drive it to its new home himself."

Neal felt a grin spread across his face. This was the most interesting thing he'd had to think about in ages. "So everyone on both ends will be relaxed, and they'll trust it to be delivered safely. Swap the painting out before the director moves it and you could get few days before it's reported stolen."

But Rebecca shook her head impatiently. "That would be great, if I had something to swap it _with_. I'm planning to intercept his car. This is all low-profile, so he won't be expecting anyone to know what it is he's transporting. It should be easy."

"Except you'll have the police after you immediately. Even if you kill the guy —" _don't kill him_ — "that'll only give you a few hours. And then they'll be after you twice as hard."

She raised her brows. "Please tell me your better suggestion, then."

"I'll do you a forgery," Neal said. He was still grinning. "No tricks, I _promise_. I just want to get to paint again."

"Hmm," Rebecca said, and she was smiling slightly now too. "Interesting idea. Let me think about it."

He didn't move from the table after she'd left the room, too focused on the idea that he might actually get to _do_ something again, especially paint. He hadn't fully realised how much he'd missed it.

Rebecca returned, with a pad of paper and a pen, as well as a printout of the Rembrandt. "Make a list of everything you need," she said. 

"You're letting me do it?" Neal asked. He tried not to beam gleefully, but couldn't really suppress it.

"You looked so happy about the idea," Rebecca said. "But, Neal, I'm trusting you. And I _will_ check the painting."

"I know," Neal said. It almost didn't matter. 

She was reading over his shoulder as he wrote his list. "Gas or electric oven?"

"Electric. It's easier to get the right temperature distribution."

She nodded, and asked him similar clarifying questions about some of the other items he put down. 

And shortly afterwards, they were all delivered. Even the oven, which Neal had expected to have to fight over (but it _really was_ vital for ageing the forgery properly, and he guessed she'd had to accept that). He spent a while studying the various enlarged reference images he'd asked for, and spread them over the table as he set up the easel.

Then he lost himself in brush-strokes and the smell of paint. It felt like sinking back into the arms of a long-absent lover. It felt like _home_.

He worked for hours, and he didn't have to request food and drink — Rebecca brought them without him asking, and stood to watch. Neal didn't really notice her coming or going.

There were no hidden messages in the forgery. He knew that it would probably end up in the hands of the FBI, and hopefully even Peter, but the risk of putting in anything that Rebecca could notice was too high. He needed her to trust him, and right now she was wary of hidden motives.

So he didn't protest when she rubbed his aching neck and shoulders as he stepped back to view his work; just tilted his head back towards her and sighed.

"This is beautiful," she murmured, looking past him to the painting. "How do you _do_ it?"

"By loving the original," Neal said. He moved stiffly, gulping water down his parched throat as he sat again. "The painting's done. I need to let it dry, and then I'll bake it."

"You should get some sleep," Rebecca told him. She carded her fingers in his hair. "You're exhausted."

"Yeah," Neal agreed. Now that he was off his feet he felt too tired to move again. It was always hard for him to get out of the zone and take proper breaks when he was working on a painting, and with no way to keep track of time he had clearly been even worse than usual. He let his head lean against Rebecca's hand.

"Come on, bed." Rebecca pulled on his arm, until he had no choice but to get up. He groaned protestingly and made his way someone clumsily into the bedroom, where he threw himself into the bed still fully clothed.

Rebecca's hands pulled the covers up over him. "Goodnight," she whispered, and he felt the light press of her lips to his cheek.

"Goodnight," he whispered back, not opening his eyes.

~

It was a success. Rebecca, having already lined up a buyer, managed to sell the stolen Rembrandt a whole two days before the theft was realised.

Neal, listening to her talk, managed to share in the exhilaration. Rebecca, of course, noticed his animation. "I _knew_ you still enjoyed the criminal life," she said. "You could never really have gone straight, could you?"

"I could have," Neal protested, but Rebecca just smiled indulgently. _It's sweet how you actually believe that,_ her expression said.

Neal scowled, abruptly irritable. 

"Don't be like that," Rebecca said. She sighed. "You know, I loved watching you paint. You were so absorbed in it."

"It's what I love doing," Neal said. "I miss it." After finishing the forgery he'd woken to find that all the art supplies had been removed, as if they had never been there at all. All that had been left was the canvas itself, and the oven for him to age it in. And she'd since taken that too, wheeling it out on its stand.

"I could see that in your face," Rebecca said. She tapped her fingertips on the table. "Would you like to do more? If it would make you happy…"

"Yes!" Neal interrupted. "Please." He worried, instantly, whether this would now count as him working for Rebecca voluntarily, but it seemed a very academic concern while he was locked inside a room. And he was so _bored_.

She looked speculative. "Actually, it would solve _both_ your worries. You'd have something to entertain you, and it can be a way for you to pay back the diamond you lost me."

He would probably have said yes even if she'd decided to make him swap food for paints. "That sounds fair," he agreed, before she could change her mind.

And he got his paints back. Rebecca sat on the couch with him for a while as they discussed what jobs to go for, her shoulder brushing his. "You need another shave," she commented.

Neal touched his chin. "Mmm." This would be the fourth time she had shaved him, and the first time he didn't feel any actual revulsion at the idea. Just resignation. 

She did shave him again after she'd brought him the first set of reference materials he needed. Neal tried to keep the images in his mind's eye, but it was difficult with Rebecca leaning so close to him, her eyes fixed on him in deep concentration. When she had finished she again checked the smoothness of her work with her fingertips, letting them glide along his jaw. He didn't look away.

"Will you paint me?" she asked.

Neal was taken aback — that hadn't at all been what he'd been expecting to hear. "Why?"

"I want to see what I look like through your eyes," she said.

He raised his brows. "What if you don't like it?"

She held his gaze. "I doubt that. But I'll take my chances."

She was _very_ close. Neal swallowed. "Alright," he said. "I'll do this forgery first, and then you."

~

This time she didn't watch him work on the Matisse. And Neal, hoping that she wouldn't recognise them, twisted his brushstrokes to suggest symbols from the codex. It was dangerous — not least because this was a forgery that Rebecca would fence as the original piece, and alterations could result in the sale falling through if they were discovered.

But he had to try. Because the alternative was to spend the rest of his life in this room with Rebecca for his only company. Even though it was becoming harder and harder to picture the outside world, he tried to cling to it. Working in the office with Peter. Drinking wine with Mozzie. Watching movies with June. Even though it was growing difficult to remember he should be hating and fearing Rebecca, he _couldn't_ forget these things.

Painting her, though, pushed everything else aside. She was wearing a simple white blouse when she came in. "Where do you want me?" she asked.

"Just here." Neal positioned her on one of the straight-backed chairs and retreated behind the easel. "Lift your chin… and turn your head to the left. A little more. Can you hold still like that?"

"For you," she said, and the little smile that she gave him lingered on her lips.

And Rebecca _was_ beautiful. Neal had always known that, of course, but he rediscovered it with each line he sketched — the fall of her hair, the curve of her neck…

He didn't paint from life often. And producing a portrait of someone while they sat, just for you, was so… so _intimate_ that he did it rarely. For people he cared deeply about.

And Rebecca, now.

When he finally let her see her portrait she exclaimed in delight, and let her hand snake around his back as he put the finishing touches on. "It's amazing," she said. "Thank you so much." She bent and gave him a gentle, hesitant kiss on his cheek.

He didn't pull away. And the second kiss she gave him was at the corner of his mouth, only just touching his lips.

~

There were more forgeries. A stock certificate one of Rebecca's contacts wanted. Paintings to replace ones stolen. Neal was allowed to keep the easel and paints in his living quarters now, and he was happy to keep working.

He kept putting codex symbols into them, now that the first ones had remained undiscovered. He wasn't even sure why, exactly — for all he knew they would never be noticed. Rebecca might even be lying to him about using his forgeries for anything at all, but they gave a shape and a purpose to his days and that was most of what mattered.

He painted her again. Didn't protest how freely she moved within his personal space now; how often she touched him. 

All her dark hair dye had long since washed out. Neal was working in chalks today, and he blended marigold and ochre and terracotta with the pad of his thumb.

And then an electronic wailing split the air and he jerked, smudging an orange blur across the pencilled lines of Rebecca's face.

Rebecca shot up from her chair. She pulled open the door, and the sounds of many crashing feet could be heard from elsewhere in the building. "Neal," she said, and grabbed his arm. "We need to go."

He let her pull him out of the room. Daylight stabbed in through windows, and startled him with its brightness. More space than he'd seen in… how long?

She paused to grab something from a dresser, and then hustled Neal quickly down a hallway. 

"Stop! FBI!"

The black-clad agents were at their heels, and more surged from the other doorway in the large room they'd ended up in. 

"Stay back," Rebecca said. She had a gun, suddenly, and the SWAT team halted as she swung it in a slow arc. "Stay back." Her other hand was tight around Neal's arm.

"Rachel Turner!" There was a blank moment when Neal thought, _who?_ and then he remembered, just as a familiar figure pushed his way through to the front. " _Neal._ "

Peter looked — But no, Neal couldn't sum up a coherent reaction. His thoughts kept skittering back to, _Peter_. And Peter's wide eyes kept flicking to Neal, a raw desperation in them that he was keeping out of the rest of his face and his voice.

"There's no way out, Rachel," Peter said, calmly. "Let Neal go."

"Don't shoot," Neal said, numbly. There were a lot of guns aimed at them. At him. At Rebecca.

"Nobody's getting shot today," Peter said, calmly. He was thinner; that was it. _Gaunt._

Rebecca pulled Neal very slightly closer. "We can get away," she whispered, into his ear.

"Rachel," Peter said, and there was more of an edge to his voice now. His gun barrel was squarely trained on her, and there was a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

Neal realised, in a rush, that Peter _wanted_ to pull the trigger.

"Don't shoot her," he repeated. "She hasn't — she hasn't hurt me."

"Okay," Peter said. "It's all right. Rachel, give yourself up and you'll be fine."

The slight twitch in the muscles of her hand in the direction of the wide French windows behind them alerted Neal to what she was about to do. And he could see the sequence of events — bullets, glass splintering, blood.

So he was the one to move instead, twisting abruptly so that he was between her and the window.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Don't do it," Neal pleaded. "Not like that. They'll kill you… please…"

No one was moving, because her gun was trained on him now. "Get out of my way," she said.

Neal shook his head. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'll shoot _you_."

"No," he said. Because he didn't want to care about her but he _did_ ; she had done such a good job after all of getting inside his head and making him, in the end, reciprocate her feelings of his own free will… "Rebecca, I _care_ about you."

Something flashed behind her eyes. "I don't," she said, and shot him.


	3. Chapter 3

~

Lying in a hospital bed, Neal looked all wrong. He was too pale, the white of someone who had been kept too long away from the sun. And so _thin_. Peter had never, ever considered that _frail_ would be a word to apply to Neal, but right now it did.

Two months…

Two months of believing that Neal was _dead_. And now he was here, and alive, but he was unconscious in a hospital bed and Peter kept leaning forward in the chair he'd slept in, wanting almost more than he'd ever wanted anything before for Neal to wake.

 _She hasn't hurt me,_ Neal had said, so desperately. As if he believed it. As if Peter hadn't _seen_ her crack her gun against his temple, as if he wasn't so painfully underweight after two months in her captivity, as if she hadn't shot him. (Shot him _twice_ , Peter reminded himself.) She had kept him isolated in two tiny rooms and she'd faked his death, but she hadn't _hurt_ him. No.

Neal hadn't fought, after he'd been shot. He hadn't even fought to stay awake, despite Peter's escalating pleas. He'd just closed his eyes.

Peter checked his watch. Fourteen hours. After hearing about Neal's recent circumstances, his doctor had recommended that only one person be there when he woke, so that he wouldn't be overwhelmed. Peter and Mozzie had had a brief and silent battle, which Peter was sure he'd only won because of how much Mozzie hated the idea of being pinned down in one place for that long with everyone knowing where he was. (In a hospital, no less.) For the same reason, El was still in DC, although she had been sending frequent texts demanding updates.

The quality of Neal's breathing changed slightly. Peter sat upright immediately. Every previous time this had happened it had been a false alarm, but after a moment he could be certain that this time was different. Neal's eyelids were fluttering slightly as he struggled to open them.

"Neal?" Peter said. He leaned closer, putting his hand over Neal's. "Can you hear me?"

And Neal's eyes opened. They flicked around uncomprehendingly, and then fixed on Peter.

"You're safe, Neal," Peter said. "We got you out."

Neal swallowed. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

"In the hospital," Peter said, and then realised what he was really asking. "Ohio. Cleveland."

Neal nodded slowly. "How long?"

"Nine and a half weeks."

"Really?" Neal whispered, but he didn't seem to expect a reply. He swallowed again, clearing his throat. "Rebecca. Is she…"

"Rachel," Peter corrected him gently. "She's in custody. In maximum security."

"She shot me." Neal shifted, apparently to confirm this fact to himself, and fell still with a quick gasp of pain.

"Don't do that," Peter cautioned automatically. "Yes, she shot you. But one of the SWAT guys got her in the shoulder as she did, and that threw off her aim. The bullet went down the edge of your ribcage and nicked something, so you lost quite a lot of blood and have two broken ribs, but you're going to be fine."

Neal just nodded; Peter wasn't entirely sure how much of that information he'd taken in.

"I believed her," Neal said, quietly, after nearly a minute. "I didn't at first, and I tried not to, but you didn't come and I… forgot."

Peter squeezed Neal's hand gently. Something inside his chest felt in danger of cracking. "I thought you were dead," he said. "We all did."

Neal didn't react at first. Then he sighed. "She made you believe her too?"

"Yes, she did," Peter said, hoping this would reassure Neal. But there was no real expression on his usually expressive face. 

Neal just nodded. And then he closed his eyes, and fell back to sleep.

~

Neal spent as much of his first day in hospital asleep as he could. After the first time awake, when he was with just Peter, there seemed a continual flood of people. Doctors and nurses and at least one shrink. He tried to be polite to them all, and when it was just too much to deal with he closed his eyes again and pretended to be sleeping, until he could fall asleep for real.

Mozzie and Peter always seemed to be there; if not inside the room then hovering anxiously outside the door until they were allowed to return. They were, somehow, harder to cope with than the anonymous flow of people in white coats and scrubs — _they_ just took readings from him and asked him easy questions about pain and didn't display any emotions of their own that he had to worry about.

(The shrink was harder, but not as bad as he'd been expecting. She wanted to know how he was feeling, but _he_ didn't really know how he was feeling. He just felt tired, and numb. She nodded when he tried to explain this, and told him he should concentrate on healing physically for now. That sounded good to him.)

Easy enough to deal with, until in the evening he suddenly began shaking, and couldn't stop. "Neal," Mozzie said, stopping in the middle of a speech Neal hadn't really been listening to. "Are you alright?"

Neal was going to say yes, but instead a wave of nausea engulfed him and he barely managed to turn his head before he vomited, following it up with dry-heaving as he'd managed to empty the meagre contents of his stomach in the first bout. 

"Neal!" Mozzie sounded panicked now, and Neal couldn't reassure him because he was too busy curling up and groaning, sick and dizzy.

"Neal." A doctor had joined them now. "Try and relax, okay?" Her warm hands were lifting the edge of his scrub top, checking his stitches. "Your wound looks fine," she said. "No fever — temperature's actually a little low. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"Dizzy. Nauseous. Head hurts."

"What's happening?" Mozzie demanded sharply in the background.

"I'm not sure," the doctor said, still speaking calmly. "We'll figure it out, don't worry. The symptoms look like an adverse reaction, or a withdrawal but —"

"Valium," Neal interrupted. His teeth were chattering.

"What?" Mozzie asked.

"Rebecca… she was giving me Valium. In my water."

"While you were being held?" the doctor asked, and waited for his nod. "Do you know what dosage?"

Neal shook his head. "She said… low." He felt _awful_.

"Even a low dose can have severe withdrawal effects, especially after more than a couple of weeks of continual use," the doctor said. "This isn't in your chart."

"Forgot," Neal said, weakly.

"You _forgot_?" Mozzie snapped, incredulously. "And you — why didn't anyone realise this?"

"We did standard blood tests, but they wouldn't have picked this up," she explained, still somehow managing to remain calm. "Okay, Mr Caffrey, now we know about this we can work on tapering it off. And right now we can make you feel more comfortable." She put her head out into the corridor and called something, while Mozzie overcame his dislike of touching people (especially people covered in their own vomit) to take Neal's hand. Neal clung to it — the room was spinning horribly.

"You're going to be okay," Mozzie said, but he sounded scared.

They gave him more Valium, to stop the withdrawal symptoms. Neal gratefully fell into its artificial calm, letting it carry him through the humiliation of being cleaned up and re-dressed in clean scrubs, and then he let it carry him back into sleep before either Mozzie or Peter could return.

~

Peter had spent the last nine and a half weeks consumed by Neal's lack. So, he assumed, had Mozzie. But now that they finally had Neal back, he was beginning to come to the realisation that Neal didn't actually want either of them around. 

It wasn't personal, El tried to persuade him. After being locked up with only Rachel for company for two months, with her doing who-knew-what to his head (and _drugging_ him — that had almost been one thing too much to accept), it shouldn't be a surprise that Neal would want to be alone. But she was states away, and not there to see how differently Neal acted towards the medical staff — the same aversion wasn't evident there. 

And when Mozzie had proposed June flying down, Neal… hadn't protested, but he'd reacted by going closed-off and shrugging diffidently, so that it was only too clear to see how much he disliked the idea. 

(According to Mozzie, June had been sad to have that response relayed to her, but understanding that Neal was already somewhat overwhelmed by just two visitors. And that _would_ have been a perfectly natural reaction for Neal to have — but it wasn't the one he was actually having.)

It was something of a surprise to Peter when, after two days in the hospital, Neal's doctor told him that he could be released the next day.

"Is he… okay?" Peter asked. 

She hesitated. "The wound to his chest is healing well; he just needs to get plenty of rest. The dependence his body's developed for the diazapam will take a while longer to get over, and he'll need close follow-up for that with a local doctor, to make sure he's following the regiment properly. You say he'll be staying with you?"

Peter nodded. "With my wife and I, in DC." He had worked himself into a fear-fuelled rage aimed at Rachel, researching Valium addiction on the internet until the early hours of the morning. If he had had that information prior to the raid on her house he would have been hard-pressed _not_ to shoot her, he thought, no matter how much Neal pleaded.

(Thoughts like that disturbed him. He was supposed to believe in the system, not in vigilante revenge like that. And yet.)

The doctor wrote something on her chart. "The best thing for him right now is to be out of the hospital and somewhere he feels safe," she said. She had avoided giving a straight answer as to whether he was _okay_ , but Peter couldn't blame her for that. 

Mozzie was the first to look up when Peter entered Neal's room. "Good news," he said, addressing both of them. "Neal, they're letting you out of here tomorrow."

"Oh," Neal said, looking vaguely surprised.

When it appeared that Neal wasn't going to add any further thoughts, Peter ploughed on. "Your legal status is a bit up in the air at the moment, but you're not going back to New York just yet. You'll come to DC and stay with me and Elizabeth while you recover."

 _That_ got more of a reaction — Neal visibly tensed, his shoulders tightening. "You don't have to do that," he said. "I'll be fine on my —"

"Neal," Mozzie interrupted, "Don't be ridiculous. Please. Let the Suit take care of you."

"You heard, I'm fine," Neal said. "They're releasing me."

"They're releasing you on the understanding that El and I will be around to make sure you're okay," Peter corrected him. "Those are the terms."

Neal looked at Mozzie, but he kept his face implacable, for once presenting a united front with Peter. "Fine," he said, his shoulders slumping.

Peter couldn't be glad that he'd won. He'd never expected that this was something he'd have to _fight_ for.

~

Travelling back to DC turned out to be worse than Peter had expected.

Neal had prescription painkillers to help him through the flight, and Peter had arranged wheelchair transport for him through the airport at both ends. In theory it should be easy enough.

However, Peter wasn't sure that it would be even before they arrived at the airport. Neal had been very quiet all morning, but he managed to get even quieter during the short cab ride. When they were met by the porter with a chair for him he sat in it without a word, and looked fixedly straight ahead.

They only had hand luggage with them, so they made it through security fairly quickly. Neal seemed to be bearing it well, but as they approached their gate Peter noticed that his hands were clenching tighter and tighter on the arms of the chair, his knuckles going white.

"Neal," he said, quietly, while the porter went to check something with another one of the airport staff, "Are you sure you're up for this?"

Neal nodded jerkily, without speaking.

If he had been about to face something which would have been over quickly, Peter wouldn't have questioned him further. But this would be over an hour on a busy plane with no way to get off. "We could still drive instead, if you wanted." They had already discussed this, and had decided to fly due to the shorter travel time, but now Peter wasn't sure it had been such a good idea.

"I'm _fine_ ," Neal snapped. Loudly. He immediately clamped his mouth shut, flushing slightly as people nearby turned their heads.

"Okay. That's okay," Peter said, keeping his voice calm. "I'm sorry."

Neal nodded. He didn't relax.

They were boarded first, and the plane filled up around them. _This really wasn't a good decision,_ Peter couldn't help thinking.

Beside him, he realised that Neal had turned even paler, his breathing becoming erratic. "Neal?" Peter asked, carefully, not wanting to provoke anger again.

But Neal didn't snap at him this time. "I can't do this," he said, very softly and very desperately, without turning his head. "Can we drive instead?"

"Yes," Peter said. He moved to pat Neal's hand, but stopped short at Neal's instinctive flinch. "It's okay. We can do that."

~

The cessation of the car engine jerked Neal awake. He had taken another strong painkiller and that day's dose of Valium as soon as Peter had acquired them a rental car, with the express intention of knocking himself out in the back seat for the six hour drive. 

Peter hadn't liked it, that had been obvious from his face, but he hadn't tried to stop Neal either. "I was hoping I'd have some company," he said, and left it at that.

It had still been enough to make Neal feel guilty. He wanted to pretend that it was because of Peter he had felt so resentful then, but in truth it was mainly because of how grateful he felt for the familiar calm which the drugs brought him. He hated every symptom that reminded him he was addicted (a _minor_ addiction, his doctor had kept saying, as if that was going to make him feel better about it), but he also hated how raw and barbed his undampened emotions felt to him now.

The sleep he'd managed to induce had been a welcome relief.

But now he was blinking in confusion at the unfamiliar street Peter had parked on. It wasn't until Peter said, "We're here," a moment later, that it quite clicked. This was Peter's new house. His home now. In DC.

Groggily, he unclipped his seatbelt and climbed stiffly out of the car. Peter got his bag from the trunk, and gestured for Neal to walk with him up the short path to one of the front doors. The houses were all low and neatly matched. Very suburban. It was too dark for Neal to make out any details of the front yard.

Peter pushed open the front door. "Hon, we're back," he called, and Neal followed him into a front hall, squinting in the abrupt brightness.

He'd barely begun to get his bearings when — "Neal!" It was Elizabeth's voice, and she came hurrying through a doorway. He was afraid for a second that she was going to throw her arms around him, but she stopped just short. "It's _so_ good to see you!"

"Hi, Elizabeth," Neal said, managing an actual smile for her. 

She smiled back. "Dinner will be about half an hour, so you've got some time to relax after your journey first. Hon, why don't you show Neal the guest room?"

"Good idea," Peter said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "Okay, lightning tour of downstairs — living room, kitchen, bathroom." He gestured to each doorway in turn, and toed off his shoes. "Shall we go up?"

Neal left his own shoes in the space under the coat racks and followed him. It was odd, seeing everything from the New York townhouse in new settings. 

"We're thinking of painting some of the rooms," Peter said. "All the walls are white at the moment, and El would prefer some colour. Expect to have your opinion solicited."

Neal nodded. He followed Peter down the hall upstairs as he pointed out the bathroom, the master bedroom, the supposed-study they hadn't decided what to do with yet, the guest room. Peter opened the door of this one, and Neal followed him through. 

Elizabeth had clearly been preparing for his arrival. The blue covers on the bed looked freshly turned-down, with two towels folded at the foot. A set of brand-new toiletries were laid out on the desk, as well as a sketchpad and a pack of pencils.

"They were El's idea," Peter said, seeing where Neal was looking. "She thought you might like to have drawing materials."

"Thanks," Neal said. His throat felt tight.

"That's not all," Peter said. He opened the wardrobe, to reveal several sets of clothes Neal recognised hanging there. "June had some of your stuff shipped down for you."

So much kindness. Neal swallowed. "Did she think I was dead, too?" It was the first time he had asked about it.

"Everyone did," Peter said. 

"Why?"

Peter looked at him steadily, as if deciding whether Neal was capable of hearing these details. "Rachel threw what looked like your body out of the helicopter, after she'd unlocked your anklet with my key. I was the only one watching, and she knew I was too far away to be able to tell it _wasn't_ a body."

"What was it?" Neal asked.

"Ropes and a jacket, bundled into the right shape with the safety harnesses and wearing your anklet. She was quite happy to tell us in interrogation how blind we'd been." Peter waited for a reaction, but Neal had no idea how he was _supposed_ to react, so he said nothing. "Neal, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Do I have time to shower before dinner?" Neal asked. He was suddenly eager to get back into his own clothes. Perhaps he'd feel more like himself then.

Peter's mouth twisted slightly at Neal's not-subtle avoidance. "You've got plenty of time," he said. "But you'll need a new dressing put on afterwards. There should be some supplies in the bathroom — call me, and I'll help."

By the time Neal finished undressing in the bathroom he wondered whether showering was an entirely sensible idea — his chest was hurting fiercely, and he was forced to sit on the closed lid of the toilet for some time because his legs were shaking just from walking into the house and upstairs. And that was _with_ the strong painkillers still in his system — he was becoming only too aware that they were wearing off.

Trying to wash his hair hurt too much. And standing in the slippery shower was worrying. Neal ended up simply letting the water rinse him for a couple of minutes, and then climbed very carefully out again. Attempting to towel-dry his hair also jostled his rib-cage unbearably, so after a cursory effort Neal just left his hair to drip while he stuck down a new dressing as well as he could on his still-wet skin. It wasn't a very good job, but he was desperately unwilling to ask for the help Peter had offered.

The clothes didn't make the difference he'd hoped to his mindset. But he managed to be downstairs within the half hour he'd been given, pushing through the kitchen door even though the room was swaying very slightly around him.

Elizabeth took one look at him and dropped her stirring spoon onto the counter, hurrying over to catch his elbows and guide him to the table. It was already laid, but she shoved everything aside so that Neal could fold his arms on it and lay his head down. "Oh, Neal," she murmured, rubbing circles against his shoulder with her hand. "You didn't need to come down when you were feeling this bad."

He shook his head, unable to verbalise even for himself why he _had_ needed to.

"Peter?" Elizabeth called.

Footsteps, and then a muffled exclamation from Peter. "Neal, what on earth —" He hastily checked himself. "Right, back upstairs. We'll bring your food up for you."

 _I can stand on my own,_ Neal wanted to protest as Peter started to help him — but he couldn't. His ribs were on fire, and darkness was hemming in his vision. Even so, he was tensing up at accepting Peter's support.

Peter could tell. He was making small unhappy noises in his throat every time Neal leaned away from him on the stairs, instead of letting him take Neal's weight. And Neal broke away altogether once they reached the guest room, refusing help to settle himself on the mattress. On top of the covers, because he hadn't resigned himself to actually going to bed yet.

Elizabeth was close behind, with a portion of food dished out and on a tray along with cutlery and a glass of juice. (Neal wondered how she'd been so fast for a moment, before realised that, rather, he had instead been far slower to get up the stairs than he'd thought.) She set it down next to him. It was simple, probably on his account; pasta with some sort of vegetable sauce. "Here you are," she said. "Shall we bring up our dinner too? We could have a picnic in here, if you like."

"No," Neal said. "I'll be all right." The longer they were in the room with him, the less hungry he was getting.

Elizabeth's eyes were full of compassion. "We'll be downstairs, then," she said. "Just call if you need us." Peter looked like he was going to protest, but she caught his arm. "Come on," she whispered, and he followed her reluctantly, with a last look back at Neal.

With no one watching him, Neal felt like he should be able to actually eat, but his appetite was almost non-existent. He picked at the pasta for a while before giving up. He moved the tray to the desk, changed laboriously into the pyjamas that had been on one of the pillows, and went to bed.

~

It was not unlike sharing their house with a ghost. Neal had been haunting him already for all of Peter's time in DC, sorrow and guilt entwined in each memory of him — but now that he was actually _there_ , as if back from the dead, he still seemed impossibly far away.

After the mess of that first evening, Peter had tried to make sure that Neal had everything he needed. He brought food and drink up to Neal's room, and books, and tried not to be too disappointed when Neal only picked at the food and never actively engaged him in conversation. 

Peter had taken leave to look after Neal, although he was doing some work from home as well. It was better than sitting in the office worrying that something terrible would happen to Neal when he wasn't there. Bruce had told him to take as long as he needed, and Peter suspected that much of his absence was being marked as sick leave rather than coming out of his vacation days. 

Neal's status was still very much undefined but Peter wasn't about to chase that down right now, not while Neal still needed the medical support the Bureau was paying for. He was back on a new anklet, but that was all.

And he had barely reacted when Peter had put it on him. No quips. No exaggerated sighs. Nothing.

"He just needs time," El said, but she couldn't quite manage to sound convinced. They were walking Satchmo in the half-hour before sunset. 

Peter sighed, and took her hand. It felt good to be outside. He hated admitting it to himself, but the house was beginning to feel oppressive and closed-in. _Haunted._ "I feel like I should be _doing_ something," he said. "But I can't make him relax around us, and I can't make him actually go through with one of the psych referrals he's stacking up."

El nodded. "It's hard to watch someone hurting and not be able to fix them."

"It just feels like I _should_ be able to. Like I'm missing something, and if I figure out what it is…"

"It doesn't work like that, though," El said. "I know you hate hearing this, but there's no magic fix for that sort of trauma."

"I know." He squeezed her hand. "You're much better at handling this than I am."

El shook her head. "I'm not, really. I know more of the relevant platitudes, but they don't actually help Neal." She sighed. "You're remembering to look after yourself too, though?"

"Yeah," Peter said, and she shook her head skeptically.

"You're eating less again," she said. "And I _know_ you're sleeping badly."

Peter had nothing to say to that. He was waking in the night again, now panicking that Neal might have vanished, or accidentally overdosed and stopped breathing, or one of a thousand other things. Sometimes the fear was so intense that he had to get up and crack open the door of the guest room, standing on the threshold until he could believe the soft sound of Neal's breathing. "I just can't stop myself worrying about him," he said.

El tightened her fingers around his. "I know," she said. "I can't either. Sometimes I think… that he doesn't really feel he's been rescued. Does that make sense?"

"I know what you mean," Peter said, and found himself thinking that again at dinner that night. Neal, at El's gentle urging, had begun joining them at the table, but he picked at his food mostly in silence, his face still pale and drawn.

And Peter had to admit to himself that he, too, wasn't really eating. He just wasn't hungry. And there was an anxious ache in his stomach again — probably he should talk to his doctor, in case he needed another course of antibiotics. He would make an appointment in the morning.

"Shall I wash up?" Neal asked, as they finished.

"No, no, don't worry," El reassured him. "It's Peter's turn, anyway."

But Peter suddenly wondered if this might not be where they were going wrong — Neal, too, was maybe in search of something he could _do_. "Actually, would you lend a hand with the drying?" he asked.

"Sure," Neal said, sounding no more enthusiastic than usual, and Peter felt his spirits fall. But he pulled up a stool next to the draining board for Neal to sit on, and passed him plates and cutlery as he washed them. 

Neal dried with a careful efficiency, and Peter couldn't tell whether his hunch had after all been correct or not. But they got through all the washing up together, and he thought that maybe Neal seemed a fraction less tense by the end. It was hard to tell, though.

~

Neal felt almost incorporeal, drifting through the days. He mostly stayed in his room, even though he _knew_ he could leave it if he wanted. But he also had the strong feeling that he shouldn't try his luck; it was the same reason he hadn't spent more time testing the door in the room Rebecca _(Rachel)_ had locked him in. 

He tried not to think about Rebecca _(Rachel)_ , but he mostly didn't succeed. He had _trusted_ her; that was the problem. He had trusted her even though he had _known_ that he shouldn't, and now he couldn't stop himself from looking for the lie and the manipulation behind every act of kindness.

Peter brought him food, and the fact that it had been brought _to_ him made it all but impossible to eat. One time, El smoothed his hair away from his eyes when he was half-asleep, and he had recoiled so hard he'd nearly fallen off the bed, and had set his ribs on fire again.

And he could _see_ how hurt and anxious and upset they were, and that made him feel even worse. Peter especially was wearing himself to the bone with worry, and Neal _wanted_ to help but it was as if he couldn't quite make himself reach him. As if he were a ghost.

(He knew that Peter looked in on him in the middle of the night. When Neal heard the door open he remained still and breathed steadily, because he couldn't even reassure himself, so what could he possibly say to reassure Peter?)

To his surprise, one of the first things that actually _helped_ was when Peter told him to join in with the washing up. All he did was dry some plates, but it was still a _useful_ task. And nothing like anything he'd done while in Rachel's captivity. There were no schemes hidden behind it; no fair veil over poison.

And the next day, he came downstairs, which he had barely done of his own accord. His ribs ached, but it was a healing ache. 

Peter was working on his laptop in the living room, but his head snapped round immediately as Neal entered. "Hi," he said, gently, as if Neal was a wild animal he was trying not to spook.

"Hi," Neal replied. He immediately felt awkward — he didn't know what to do with himself now he was here. 

Peter closed the laptop, and cleared his throat. "I was just about to make coffee," he said. "You want some?"

"Yeah, okay," Neal said. He could feel himself already shutting down again, but maybe he should make an effort to be around other people. And he _did_ like the sound of coffee.

Peter looked pleased, but then he winced as he stood up, and held onto the back of the couch for a moment. "Are you okay?" Neal asked, concerned.

"Yeah," Peter said. At Neal's continued frown he elaborated, "Just having some stomach pains. I've got a doctor's appointment for tomorrow."

Neal realised, with a sudden guilty shock, that Peter didn't look at all well. His clothes were too loose on him, and there were shadows under his eyes. Had they worsened over the past few days? Neal followed him quickly into the kitchen, sitting down at the table.

"June sends her love," Peter said, over his shoulder, as he filled the coffee-maker. "I spoke to her earlier."

Neal scuffed his bare foot against the floor tiles, not knowing what to say. He _knew_ he must be upsetting June, and Mozzie by not contacting them. Elizabeth had pointedly left a new cell phone on the desk in his room, telling him that it was pre-paid and he was to make as many calls as he wanted. But he hadn't wanted to make any. It was easier not to think about anyone else; easier to keep on avoiding them.

The coffee-maker began its cycle but Peter didn't move. Neal stared at the surface scratches on the wooden table-top, not wanting to look up to meet the critiquing gaze he knew was being levelled at him.

But then there was a _thud_ , and Neal did look round, sharply.

He'd been wrong. Peter wasn't staring at him at all; he was bent double, fingers clinging on to the edge of the counter to try and hold himself up. As Neal shoved his chair back Peter lost his grip and fell the rest of the way to the floor.

"Peter!" 

Neal dropped down beside him, the burn of his ribs just background noise to his sharp terror. Peter looked up at him, his eyes wide and unfocused, and then he spasmed, and vomited dark blood onto the kitchen floor. 

Peter retched again and coughed out blood, and it was only then that Neal finally broke out of his shocked stillness. He reached automatically for his phone — but he didn't have one, did he? "Peter," he said, "Peter, where's your phone?"

But Peter showed no recognition, and his eyes closed.

There wasn't a cell in any of Peter's pockets. Neal pushed himself to his feet and stumbled out into the hall. No phone there… how had he not noticed where the landline was, in all this time he'd been here? He was frantic with urgency by the time he _finally_ located it on the writing desk in the living room, and dialled with hands shaking so badly he nearly missed the numbers.

"911 —"

"Ambulance," Neal interrupted. "I need an ambulance."

"One moment, please." 

He was transferred to a new voice, and tried to instantly explain about Peter collapsing, about the blood…

"Can you give me the address?"

Neal froze, his mind a blank. _DeKalb Avenue,_ he wanted to say, but that was wrong, they were in _DC_ … How could he not know Peter's new address?

 _Because he hadn't cared enough to find out._ He didn't even know what the _road_ was called.

"I — I don't know —" he choked out.

"Okay, sir, please try to remain calm." The operator read him the address that was registering on their system, but Neal couldn't even say whether it sounded about right or not.

But he was told that an ambulance was on its way, and he unlocked the front door and left it standing open so that he could hurry back into the kitchen and stay crouched on the cold floor next to Peter, who was cold as well and wasn't waking up….

~

The paramedics were efficiently competent, taking charge of everything. One of them even got Neal to put on shoes as he followed them out, and made sure he locked the front door behind them.

Peter didn't wake up in the ambulance. Neal didn't take his eyes off him, huddled in the corner where he'd been sat out of the way. There was an oxygen mask covering Peter's face and one of the paramedics was loudly calling out numbers — Neal didn't know what any of them meant.

_Peter, Peter, I'm sorry…_

Then the ambulance disgorged him into the ER, and he followed Peter for as long as he could until a nurse stopped him and directed him to a waiting room instead.

He stared at his hands. And at his knees — his pant legs had splotches of blood. Someone brought him a clipboard with Peter's paperwork and he tried to fill it out but he kept losing track and forgetting what he was doing.

It must have been collected back off him at some point, because he no longer had it when he found himself in a room with Peter pale and unconscious in a bed and hooked up to lines feeding him things — oxygen, fluids, blood.

There didn't seem to be a way Neal could find to sit comfortably in the bedside chair. His chest ached with pain from his ribs, and from deeper inside. And he was cold; he was only in a teeshirt, and his feet were bare inside formal shoes. This was the first time he'd left the Burkes' house in the week he'd been there. He didn't even know if it was exactly a week or not, because he hadn't been keeping track.

The door opened.

"Neal!" Elizabeth didn't wait for him to acknowledge her; she was already advancing on the bed. "How is he?"

"I don't know," Neal said, numbly. "He hasn't woken up yet."

"Hon?" Elizabeth touched Peter's hand, and then stroked his cheek tenderly. "Sweetie, I'm here."

She waited for a moment, as did Neal, both of them holding their breath. But Peter gave no sign of waking, and his chest continued to rise and fall steadily.

"The doctor said…" Neal began, but his mind went blank and he couldn't remember what the doctor had said at all.

"He's had surgery for a bleeding stomach ulcer," Elizabeth said. "That's what I was told."

Neal nodded. That was right.

"He was brought in several hours ago?" Elizabeth asked.

Neal glanced at the small window. To his shock, it was dark outside. "That long?"

"That long."

But she had only just arrived…

"Neal," El said, very quietly, "I want you to think about how I felt coming home to find blood all over the kitchen floor and neither you nor Peter anywhere to be found."

Neal stared at her, going cold with horror. _She hadn't known._ She hadn't known what had happened, because he hadn't thought to call her. He hadn't thought to call _anyone_.

"Do you know what my first thought was?" she asked. Neal shook his head. "I thought you'd tried to kill yourself. I rang the closest hospitals, asking if a Neal Caffrey had been brought in. But then I realised that Peter would have let me know if something bad had happened, so I called back with his name instead."

The form that Neal had partially filled in. He hadn't been able to remember her cellphone number for the Next of Kin section, so he must just have left it blank. The hospital had probably assumed he was trying to contact someone himself. But he hadn't.

"I'm sorry," Neal said. It sounded painfully inadequate. "El, I didn't… I didn't _think_."

She was still standing, watching him. "I didn't mean to be angry," she said, finally. "I know you're — not yourself right now. But, Neal, I was so _scared_."

He dropped his eyes. "Don't apologise," he said. "Please." He couldn't deal with her emotions; couldn't trust how they made him feel…

No. _He_ was the one who'd broken trust, by neglecting to tell her about Peter. By not even _thinking_ about her.

"Neal," she said, and he glanced up. She was looking at Peter. "I know you don't like being touched at the moment, and I understand that, but… I could really use a hug. If you want to."

He stood stiffly, and she was infinitely gentle as she put her arms around him. 

~

Peter woke with Elizabeth holding his hand, and Neal sitting close on his other side. Waiting for him to wake up. What had — no, he remembered now what had happened. "Am I in trouble?" he asked.

El laughed, a little shakily. "Oh, you are in _so_ much trouble," she said. "You scared the hell out of us."

"Sorry."

His throat was dry, and El lifted a cup for him to take small sips of water from. "Not too much," she warned him. 

Neal was quiet, but Peter had come to expect that. He was surprised to see Neal there at all. And rather ashamed of his surprise — he hoped Neal hadn't noticed it. "You doing okay?"

"He's doing fine," El said. Neal nodded, and Peter couldn't interpret the look that passed between them.

They had to leave not long after — it was already late enough for visiting hours to be over. Peter missed them horribly, but eventually managed to fall asleep.

The next morning it was just El who entered his room. "Hi, hon," she said. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Better than I expected," Peter said, and smiled as she bent down to kiss him. "Are you on your way to work?"

"Yeah," she said. "Although I can take the day off if you need me to?"

"No, no," he assured her. He was already causing her enough disruption, and they had had this argument the night before. "Is Neal okay on his own?"

El smiled. "Actually, Neal's downstairs. He got an appointment in the clinic."

"Really?" Neal had been steadfastly denying that he needed medical follow-up, and that he was healing fine on his own. As far as Peter had been able to tell that was probably true, but he'd still wanted Neal to get an actual doctor's opinion.

"We had a long talk last night," El said. "I guess this an upside of you terrifying him like that."

"And you," Peter said.

She didn't try to deny it. "You promised me you were taking care of yourself," she said. "But you weren't. You were letting the stress build and build, and you refused to acknowledge it."

"I got that lecture from the doctor, too," Peter admitted. "He wasn't impressed with my recent medical history."

"Good." She handed him over a cloth bag. "I packed some things for you to entertain yourself with — you don't get to be released for a few days. And Neal will be here soon."

It was about an hour after El had left that Neal showed up. "Peter, I'm so sorry," he said, apparently as a greeting.

Peter shook his head. "I'm pretty sure this was my fault," he said, indicating with his hand the general hospital set-up. "El certainly agrees."

But Neal didn't look any happier. He moved further into the room to take the bedside chair El had recently vacated. "You shouldn't have had to worry about me so much. I haven't been —"

" _Neal_. I do _not_ blame you." Peter cut off renewed protests with a sharp shake of his head. "What did they say to you in the clinic?"

Neal visibly switched mental tracks. "That I'm healing well," he said. After a moment he added, "And I got a psych referral."

Peter pursed his mouth as he tried to work out what to say. "I know that's not something you're keen about going through with," he said, finally. "And I've been trying to avoid pressuring you — both of us have. But, Neal, I _really_ think you should take that referral."

He was immediately worried that he'd pushed too hard, and that Neal would shut down on him again. But he just couldn't — he _couldn't_ continue as they had been doing. None of them could.

But, to his surprise, Neal just nodded. "I know," he said. "I've got an appointment in two days' time."

Too much of Peter's reaction must have shown in his face, because Neal dropped his eyes awkwardly. "Neal, that's great," Peter said, encouragingly. "I'm proud of you."

Neal looked up with a half-smile, but then it faltered. "Don't say that too soon," he said. "Did El tell you about what happened yesterday?"

Peter shook his head, and then listened with growing heartache to Neal's halting account. Partway through he reached over to take Neal's hand; Neal didn't pull away. 

"I'm sorry," Neal finished. He looked wretched.

Peter held onto his hand. "Hey," he said, and waited until Neal met his eyes. "We can fix this, you know."

"What if we can't?" Neal asked, quietly. 

Peter held his gaze. "You don't think you can be fixed?" he asked. Neal shrugged, miserably. "Well, I _know_ you can. In time, not overnight, but I have faith."

"That's what El said," Neal muttered.

Peter smiled. "My wife is a clever woman. She said you two had a long talk last night."

Neal nodded. "She says she forgives me. For… yesterday." His loose grip on Peter's fingers tightened.

"Will _you_ forgive me?" Peter asked, softly. Neal frowned slightly, surprised. "For not finding you sooner. For not _looking_."

"It wasn't your fault," Neal protested. "You thought I was dead."

"But I still hurt you, doing that," Peter said. "So. Can you forgive me for it?"

~

Bruce stopped by to visit at lunchtime. Neal obligingly left to find himself something to eat, leaving the two of them alone.

Bruce watched Neal as he left the room. "How's Caffrey?" he asked, once the door had closed.

"He's a mess," Peter said. He was aware that he was smiling fondly. "But he'll be okay. Eventually."

Bruce nodded, surveying Peter with his hands on his hips. "You're kind of a mess too, you know."

Peter didn't take offence. "Yeah, I know."

"Well, so long as you're aware." He took the chair Peter gestured him to, leaning back in it. "So. How are you feeling?"

"Better," Peter said. He was uncomfortably aware of the scrutiny he was under.

"Than when?" Bruce asked, and sighed. "In any case, I'm here to tell you you're on indefinite sick leave now. We're not going to talk about the future until you're recovered."

Peter nodded reluctantly. It made sense — _he_ wouldn't have let him anywhere near the Bureau for the foreseeable future. He _was_ a mess.

Then he felt a lead weight sink in his stomach. "What about Neal?" he asked. Part of the reason that Neal's undefined status was able to fly right now was that he was under an agent's supervision. But with Peter on indefinite leave, that status would no longer apply.

Bruce frowned slightly. "That's what I have to sort out," he said. "I've had it suggested that if he needs further treatment he should be placed in an inpatient facility, until he's fit to serve out the remainder of his sentence either in New York or here in DC." 

Peter made a protesting sound in his throat. "Sir, I _really_ don't think that's a good idea," he said, sitting straighter to try and convince Bruce of his sincerity. "Isolating Neal from his friends again, and making him depend on people he doesn't know… I think it would be more likely to send him into a downward spiral than help him."

Bruce nodded slowly. Peter couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Having seen Caffrey, right now he's clearly _not_ fit for FBI work," he agreed. "So what would you recommend?"

~

Neal didn't go with Elizabeth to bring Peter home from the hospital. With the agreement of the doctor who was now managing his care, he'd decided to forgo tapering the dose and just stop taking the Valium altogether, riding out the withdrawal effects. As a result he was feeling horribly queasy, and any time in a car would almost certainly tip him over the edge.

But he met Peter at the door. And Peter lit up with a smile on seeing him that actually got him smiling back. 

Between him and Elizabeth (mostly Elizabeth) they helped get Peter upstairs and settled into bed. "I'd have been fine in the armchair," Peter protested, half-heartedly.

"I'm not putting your desire to watch baseball over your need for proper rest," El said, firmly, and Neal smirked behind her back. "Now. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine," Peter said. He sighed a little. "I'm feeling wiped out already, actually."

She stroked his hair. "Well, if you need anything —"

"No, you don't need to be running around on my behalf," Peter objected.

El smiled, slightly wickedly. "You didn't let me finish. _Neal's_ in charge of looking after you. If you need anything, call him."

Neal flinched a little as Peter looked at him measuringly, as if about to protest. But he didn't — he just nodded fondly. "Looks like I'm in good hands, then," he said, sounding surer about it than Neal really felt.

But, like keeping the psych appointments, this was something he'd discussed and agreed with Elizabeth while still riding out the guilt and fear in the wake of Peter's collapse. He wasn't going to back out, even if he wasn't sure now how well he'd actually be able to do it.

It turned out that Peter wanted to spend most of the day sleeping. Neal fetched him glasses of water between-times, and made sure Peter's nightstand was adequately stacked with interesting books and a newspaper.

It felt… weird, to be in this role. But not unpleasant.

In the evening El had to go out to an event the Gallery was hosting. Peter had cajoled her into admitting that using his laptop to watch sports while in bed _probably_ still counted as being restful, so he had it balanced on his knees as he ate a small amount of rice pudding. "Aren't you having anything?" he asked Neal.

Neal shook his head. "I don't really feel like eating," he said. He had had some dry toast earlier, and that felt like enough of an achievement for his unsteady stomach.

Peter nodded sympathetically. "Can you get a damp washcloth from the bathroom, please?" he asked.

When Neal came back with it, Peter patted the bed beside him. "Lie down," he said. "Let me take care of you for a bit."

Neal hesitated, instinctively rejecting the idea.

"You've been doing things for me all day," Peter said, gently. A look at his face told Neal he _knew_ what he was asking. "You're not dependent on me, and you have a choice. This is reciprocation; nothing more. Would you like to lie down?"

It had all the feeling of a trap. _Show me that you trust me._ Pass or fail. 

But it was _Peter_ , not Rachel. And Neal knew, quite suddenly, that it wouldn't _matter_ if he failed. Peter would let him try again, and again, for as long as it took, not judging him for it. Because Peter, fundamentally, believed in him.

Neal lay down next to him and closed his eyes as Peter laid the cool cloth across his aching head. He smiled, and Peter's hand ruffled his hair.

"I forgive you," Neal whispered. "For not finding me before. I forgive you."

There were tears welling from under his eyelids, but the cloth hid them. He wondered if Peter somehow knew anyway, though, because his hand rested on Neal's shoulder and didn't move away.

~

Paint was speckled all up Neal's arms, and he was pretty sure there was some in his hair. He was still more respectable than Peter, though, who had absentmindedly rubbed terracotta fingermarks into his chin a few minutes ago. Neal hadn't told him yet.

They had almost finished the kitchen, which would hopefully speed up the still-pending decision on the colour of the living room — the walls were currently decorated with an odd mishmash of paint swatches, and the topic was dominating the dinner table discussions. 

"I still think you're missing an opportunity," Neal said, continuing a half-hearted argument that had been running on and off for a couple of days now. "You could let me do just _one_ mural…"

"Or a Mona Lisa in the bathroom?" Peter suggested. "What our house _doesn't_ need is forgeries stuck to the wall."

" _Not_ forgeries — and it's not like anyone would mistake them for the original," Neal protested.

"The answer is still no. It's going to be no every single time you ask. _No._ "

Neal laughed, and leaned against one of the covered-over counters to take a drink of water as he surveyed their work. Neither he nor Peter were up to anything like full speed again yet, but the redecorating effort was still coming along nicely.

"You keep checking your watch," he said. "Are you waiting for something?"

Peter pushed his watch self-consciously back into the pocket of his paint-smeared jeans. "I'm expecting a call from Bruce this afternoon," he said.

"Ah," Neal said, and pointed Peter towards his own glass of water. Peter nodded his thanks and moved to pick it up. "You're not trying to go back to work early, are you?"

"No," Peter said, definitively. "We agreed, didn't we? Not until I'm one hundred percent, and then part-time at first."

"Good," Neal said. "My therapist says sticking to commitments is very important."

"She said that to _you_ ," Peter pointed out.

Neal shrugged. "I don't see why that's relevant."

Peter rolled his eyes, and Neal grinned. He enjoyed teasing Peter — and more, he enjoyed how much _Peter_ obviously liked it. It had been an enormously welcome surprise how easily their old way of bantering had bubbled back up to the surface again. 

Peter's phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. "Hi, Bruce."

Neal turned back to carefully painting along the edge of the door frame. He might complain to Peter about how unimaginative it was, but there was still definitely something very satisfying about blocking out large areas in a single colour. 

He was trying not to eavesdrop, but he caught bits of Peter's conversation anyway. "A _definite_ yes? And when does that take effect?" A pause. "No, it's the right thing. Absolutely. Goodbye, and thank you."

"That sounded official," Neal said, idly curious. Peter had ended the call, but not yet put his phone away.

"Yes," Peter said. His expression was a little strange as he looked at Neal. He seemed about to say something, but then he stopped himself. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Neal waited, much more than idly curious now, until Peter returned with something hidden in his hand. "Put your foot up on the chair," he said.

Confused, Neal obeyed. And Peter unlocked his anklet, and took it off.

"Are you giving me a different model?" Neal asked. His chest was suddenly tight.

"No," Peter said. He set the anklet down firmly on the counter-top. "You remember all those months ago in New York, when you asked for your sentence to be commuted? I passed the suggestion along to Bruce recently. With all you've done for the Bureau, and in light of recent events, the higher-ups had no objection."

"You mean, in light of the fact I'm too messed up to be of use to the FBI now?" Neal asked. He felt breathless; giddy.

"Think of it as the silver lining," Peter said, with a slightly sardonic twist to his smile. "Also, Bruce is making sure that medical expenses relating to your kidnapping continue to be covered, since you'd probably have grounds to sue the Bureau otherwise." He put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Ask me again when it's sunk in," Neal said, a little numbly. He was still having difficulty wrapping his head around it. 

He was _free_.

"But what am I supposed to _do_ now?" he asked, a little plaintively.

"That's up to you," Peter said. "Kind of the point, yes?" He was beaming fondly.

"True. Yes." Neal picked up the anklet, weighing it in his hand. It was startlingly light. "Peter, I… don't know what to say. Thank you."

"You earned it," Peter said, and reached out an arm. Neal hugged him, as tightly as his still-healing ribs would allow, and Peter clapped him on the back.

He could go _anywhere_.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Peter asked, and Neal nodded. "Call Mozzie and June. They've been waiting to hear from you in person for long enough."

It was true. He'd begun exchanging emails — his somewhat brief and halting, theirs long and full of patient support — but he hadn't actually spoken to either of them in _far_ too long. And now he had this news. What was the point of good, of _fantastic_ news if one didn't share it with friends?

"I'll do that," Neal said. 

Peter smiled. "I imagine Mozzie will be in danger of exploding with excitement when he realises you can go off travelling again." Something wistful slipped into his face.

_You can go anywhere. Do anything._

Neal became aware that he was still holding the anklet, dangling it from one hand. He set it down and picked up his paintbrush instead. "Have you settled on the colour for your bedroom?"

Peter looked nonplussed at the change of tack. "Not yet, why?"

Neal shrugged nonchalantly, and poured more terracotta paint into his tray. "I can't walk out on a job half-done," he said. "We haven't even finished painting all the downstairs rooms yet." Suddenly afraid he was misreading the situation, he quickly looked up. "That is, if you wouldn't mind me staying a little longer?"

Peter gripped his arm, his hold brief but fierce. " _Never_ ," he said. His eyes were shining as he blinked rapidly, but his voice was firm. "Stay as long as you like."


End file.
